Disclaimer: None of these characters or songs are mine. It's not true, so don't sue. :)

"Hey, I'm sorry, Kurt, but we just don't have the funds right now."

Kurt's smile faltered slightly at this news, but he forced a bit of light into his eyes. "That's fine, I could just..."

"Kurt," the bar owner said seriously. "I'm sorry, but I can't. It's not... what my customers want to hear." Kurt nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping infinitesimally, the keyboard case feeling a thousand times heavier. "Try finding something steady, kid. You can't be making much money playing at bars."

He nodded once more, not bothering to plead.

It wasn't that he wasn't making much money.

It was that he wasn't making any money.

—

The door to his apartment didn't quite stay in the frame, so he had to jam it shut. The windows rattled a bit.

"You home?" came a voice from the bathroom.

"Yeah," Kurt called back, hanging up his coat and placing his case by the door.

His boyfriend walked around the corner, rubbing a towel through his hair, his holed jeans low on his hips. "Any luck today?" he asked.

"No." The screech that the dining chair made as Kurt sat was unsettling, but he was too exhausted to care.

"Listen, Kurt. I know I've said it a thousand times..."

"I'm not going to find a salary job, Paul," Kurt said hollowly, leaning heavily on his knees. "I'm going to go out tomorrow -"

"You're always going out tomorrow, Kurt," his boyfriend spat. "You know, I have two jobs so we can stay here, and live here. You know that. And you won't even get one -"

The chair thumped to the ground angrily as Kurt stood, his eyes furious. "Paul!"

"I know! I know you said your musiccomes first. But maybe -"

"Paul, there isn't a maybe. I need music more than I need... oxygen."

"And I need you, Kurt. Have you thought about that? Have you ever thought about how we need money?" Paul grabbed the sides of Kurt's face, staring intently at Kurt. At Kurt's wooden response, he dropped his hands. "You haven't."

"My music -"

"-always comes first. I know that." The thick sigh Paul exhaled at that moment was full of so much more than exasperation. It was rich with finality. "I can't do this anymore, Kurt. We're - it's been so long, Kurt. And I can't do it anymore."

Kurt didn't say a single thing. Paul stood in front of him, silence stifling. He went forward and put a heavy hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezing once.

Kurt's eyes didn't follow his boyfriend as he went to the bedroom and grabbed his suitcases, already packed. He didn't look up as Paul threw the door shut.

He didn't look up for a while.

—

Kurt glanced at the address he had scrawled in his black planner. It was the fourth bar on today's list. There were a lot of them in New York, after all.

It was his last hope for today.

He pushed the glass door carefully, looking about the dark bar. The place had fabric lanterns decorating the ceiling, with yards of carmine draped across the room. A jazz tape played lightly in the background.

Even at five, there were a few bar-goers milling around. The bartender was leaning on the side of the dark counter, polishing a glass.

He swallowed heavily and walked towards the bar, setting his case on the ground quietly. The bartender looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice amused.

"Do you have a resident pianist here, or are you not that kind of bar?" Kurt asked, his voice sounding weak, even to his own ears. The eyebrows rose higher, and a disbelieving chuckle rang out.

"Like that song? Piano Man?"

"...Sure."

"Well, no. We haven't had one for some time now." Kurt was beginning to become seriously annoyed with this guy's attitude.

"I'm a pianist," Kurt said slowly. "I was wondering if I could talk to... your manager, or something. See if I could maybe play here."

"For money?"

"Yes," Kurt grit out.

"Do you do this often?" the bartender asked, leaning over the counter on his elbows to gaze at Kurt. "Just show up at bars, asking for a job?" The heat that had been building within Kurt burst into an angry red flush on his neck.

"I used to go to bars that needed pianists. Now I go to bars that don't, because I'm desperate," he ground, his teeth tingling from how hard he had been clenching them. The bartender's smile still didn't drop.

"Well, I guess I'll have to talk to my manager about that. We haven't done any live entertainment lately. Maybe it'll class up the place." He shot Kurt a winning grin, which Kurt did not return. "What's your name?"

"Kurt," he answered shortly. "Do you know when you could ask him?"

"Hmm, well, you could ask him yourself." The smile grew sickeningly mocking, and Kurt was growing more irritated by the second.

"Will he be back soon?"

"You're looking at him."

Kurt inhaled slowly through his nose, his exhalation meant to drive out all the irked stress. "You're the manager," he stated.

"I am."

"So?"

"So, sure. How much do you cost per night, Kurt?" the bartender asked, winking at him as he stood up straighter. Kurt didn't say anything for a moment, but then he stared at the curly-haired man. He swallowed, feeling his throat tighten.

"You're... not serious. You haven't even heard me play."

"You seem confident," explained the bartender. "I'll take my chances. What days do you do?"

"I can do any day," Kurt said breathlessly. "I normally do $40 a gig."

"Well, Kurt, I'd much rather have you on a salary, but I have to see how fantastic you really are. Piano's over there."

Kurt glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, there was a baby grand piano, covered in a black tarp. He glanced back towards his new employer. "I have my own keyboard."

"Well, I'd rather you play ours."

Kurt suddenly wasn't so annoyed by the wide smile on the bartender's face. "Should..." He cleared his throat. "Should I play something right now?"

"That'd be great. Might be a bit out of tune though. Hasn't been played for around a month or so. Our last pianist moved to Milwaukee."

"...So you are a piano bar."

"Never said we weren't. I said we haven't had live entertainment for a while." The grin on the bartender's face was even wider than before. "I should have gotten around to finding a new one, but I guess you got around to finding me."

"I guess so," Kurt replied slowly. It was silent between them for a beat, before the bartender raised his hand and gestured towards the piano.

"Well, get to it. Play anything you'd like."

"Thanks."

Kurt went to the piano, discarding its cover quickly. He admired the glossy Steinway for a moment, letting his eyes glance over it hungrily. He hadn't played on a baby grand in... too long.

He sat himself down, and put his fingers to the keys.

He began pressing out his back pocket song: "Here, There, and Everywhere."

As he played, he muttered the lyrics beneath his breath.

"To lead a better life, I need my love to be here..."

He plucked out each key, reveling in the smooth rhythm the piano provided him with. A clear voice rang out from the other side of the bar.

"There, running my hands through her hair...

Both of us thinking how good it can be.

Someone is speaking but she doesn't know he's there."

Kurt's eyes shot upwards, his fingers not leaving the keys, nor betraying the rhythm. The bartender was singing into his polished glass. Kurt smiled minutely, glancing back at his piano.

"I want her everywhere, and if she's beside me,

I know I need never care...

But to love her is to need her everywhere,

Knowing that love is to share..."

Another voice had joined the first. The old man, sitting beside someone who was obviously a business partner, raised his glass in the air and swayed it steadily. He was off-tune, but the bartender quickly embraced the new singer, switching octaves in a heartbeat.

"Each one believing that love never dies

Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there..."

Kurt locked eyes with the bartender then, and he felt himself nearly stumble over the ivory keys. He didn't lose eye contact, even as he sang out the final lines of the song himself:

"To be there, and everywhere,

Here, there, and everywhere..."

There was enthusiastic applause from the limited amount of guests in the bar. Kurt nodded his head at them, and traipsed back towards the counter. The grin hadn't left the bartender's face.

"Do I have the job?" Kurt asked shakily.

"Every weekday except Wednesday. I want you Sundays unless you're religious," the bartender deadpanned, and Kurt nodded quickly. "I'll pay you $500 a week to start. You'll play from... eight until midnight? Is that fine?"

"That's perfect. That's beyond perfect."

"And tips can help you out. I'd pay more, but..."

"I'd take just tips, honestly," Kurt replied swiftly, eyes bright for the first time in a while. This made the bartender shoot him another wink, and he set the glass on the counter.

"Welcome to the Warbler, Kurt."

He held out a hand, which Kurt took. "It's great to be here, sir," Kurt said, unable to keep the grin from his face.

"Please. Sir? Really?" The bartender rolled his eyes. "It's Blaine. Blaine Anderson."

"Kurt Hummel."

—

When Kurt first came to work that Friday, the place was completely packed. It seemed to be mostly the art school kids, all dressed in black turtlenecks and berets. Kurt choked down his old fashionista instincts. He couldn't say anything right now about their fashion; the only designer he donned these days was Levi Strauss. Though that one girl's scarf was simply -

He spotted Blaine, his smile blinding per usual, as he deftly poured a glass of burgundy wine for one man who must have been some sort of music professor. At that moment, Blaine glanced towards the door, his eyes catching on Kurt. He nodded his head towards the piano.

Kurt sat at the bench, shaking his fingers. He spotted the microphone and pulled it towards his mouth, taking a deep breath before talking calmly into it.

"Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I'm Kurt, and I'll be playing for you tonight. Any requests are welcome."

As soon as his fingers hit the keys, he began plucking out an old Cole Porter, "Night and Day."

He watched Blaine every so often. He was so obviously in his element, pouring brightly colored cocktails. Waiters walked around to tables with his recommendations, and there was a growing line outside the bar door.

Blaine knew how to play the artsy young types.

There was a smattering of clapping after Kurt finished his piece. So that's what they wanted... grinning subtly, he rolled the keys swiftly, tapping out "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend."

He noticed a tiny brunette girl singing her heart out to the song, much to the dismay of her oh-so-creative friends. He smiled at her gently, and she threw out her arm at him, singing at the top of her lungs. He was sharply reminded of another brunette girl with an unrestrained set of pipes. A few of the older patrons chuckled at her antics, joining in, with a deep, soulful rendition coming from an elderly couple in the corner.

The brunette jumped towards the piano, shoving a handful of bills into his tip jar. Kurt smiled at her, and she leaned forward to whisper a request in his ear. She squealed with delight as he nodded at her, beginning to play the song's opening.

The entire bar, obviously full of theatre-types, began singing along to "The Way We Were." The brunette girl must have been an enormous Barbra fan, because she had her hands pressed desperately to her heart the entire time, and her eyes closed as she mouthed out the lyrics reverently. Kurt laughed beneath his breath. Rachel would have adopted her. Or sent her to a crack house.

When Kurt ended his set at midnight, several of the patrons begged for more, and he kept playing until closing. Blaine had to usher many of the bar-goers home by two.

"You're fantastic. I liked your rendition of Don't Stop Believing," Blaine said as he stacked the barstools, after the waiters had gone home.

"Thank you," Kurt said quietly, covering the piano with the black tarp. "Your place is really popular, isn't it?"

"Well, you'd be surprised how many kids over at NYU need a drunken singing outlet," Blaine replied, laughing. "It's five blocks away. The kids come here when they don't have another party to go to. Then we have all the old-types who like to hear some jazz ever so often."

"It's like a mature piano bar," Kurt teased, and Blaine laughed openly.

"Just play a few more Top 40s in the beginning of your set next time. The artsy folks deny it, but they know all the words." He checked his watch. "Holy - it's nearly three. You'll be all right getting home?"

"I live in Washington Heights."

"Do you really? That's not too bad, then, but if you wanna crash here - I know the first night is a tough one."

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked, confusedly. When Blaine started talking about how the pianists usually were tired, he shook his head in exasperation. "No, I mean, what do you mean, crash here?" Blaine jerked a thumb upwards.

"I live upstairs."

Kurt gulped audibly. Blaine was either very forward or very oblivious.

"I - Would that be too much of a problem? My landlord's not too happy with me, lately."

"It'd be fine!" Blaine dismissed, his smile infectious. "Besides, I'd like to get to you know a bit better. Staircase's around the back." He tossed Kurt the key, which was painted magenta.

Kurt took the vague instructions and found a locked door beside the bathroom. Unlocking it, he found a hidden stairway that obviously led to Blaine's place.

He flicked on the lamp, and the room was flooded with light. It was furnished nicely - leaps and bounds above Kurt's own, which was courtesy of Craigslist.

He sat gingerly on the white chaise lounge and contemplated the changes his life had taken in the last forty-eight hours.

His boyfriend had walked out on him.

He'd gotten a job.

He'd played a set, and been successful, at said gig.

He'd met Blaine Anderson.

Who was perfect.

Kurt leaned his head back carefully, groaning. He couldn't mess this up.

Not even for Blaine Anderson.

Whose forearms were perfectly accentuated by the rolled-up dress shirt that he wore today. Who could mix a perfect Appletini. Who obviously knew a fair amount about interior decorating.

He would be the 16-year-old Kurt Hummel's dream man. But 26-year-old Kurt Hummel was a bit more realistic. For example, it was unrealistic to believe Paul would stay with him through all he'd put him through. And it was unrealistic to think that a perfect man would be interested in a dropout bar pianist.

—

When Blaine finally came upstairs, he was wiping his hands on a rag. "Sorry, took a bit longer than I thought," he apologized, tossing said rag into a wire hamper near the bathroom door. "You tired?"

Kurt shook his head. He was only completely alert when around Blaine.

"Good, me neither. Let's mingle then, shall we?"

Blaine went to his kitchenette, pulling out a bottle of rum and a liter of Coke.

When he returned to Kurt, drinks in hand, Kurt accepted it graciously.

"So, Kurt," Blaine said, sipping. "Where are you from, originally?"

"Ohio."

"You're kidding! I went to school in Ohio!"

Kurt rolled his eyes, but Blaine nodded enthusiastically. "I'm not kidding! Dalton Academy, you heard of it?"

"Bullshit, you did not go to Dalton," Kurt dismissed, and Blaine laughed raucously.

"Come on, I did! I was even in the Glee club. I was quite the star."

"Of course. You were a Warbler. That would make sense for the bar's name."

"You noticed!"

"I'll have you know I went to McKinley. And I was in their Glee club, and we beat the Warblers down back in 2012."

"Attacking my old school! That's low, Kurt. You're a harsh man." Blaine swirled the rum and Coke in his glass, smirking at the pianist. Kurt couldn't help but giggle. He threw a hand to his face in embarrassment, but Blaine just smiled at him. Kurt's eyes fell back down to his glass, and the perfectly cubed ice.

"But that was a long time ago," Kurt said softly. It was quiet between the two of them. Kurt shook his head. "High school was hell. I know people say that, but... I counted the days for about... three years." Kurt couldn't see Blaine's nod. "I heard Dalton had a zero tolerance bullying program."

"They do," Blaine said quietly. "Part of the reason I went there." Kurt looked up at Blaine, whose eyes were somewhere else. "Some kids at my old school would rough me up sometimes. People in Ohio aren't that open-minded."

"You can definitely say that again," Kurt mourned, taking a long pull from his drink. "That's why I came to New York. I thought this would... really be the place where I belonged. But things didn't turn out the..." Kurt fell silent, his face flaming red. "Th-that's..."

"No, it's fine," said Blaine soothingly. Kurt just gazed at Blaine, his shoulders loosening a bit. "I'm a good listener, Kurt."

So Kurt told him about how he failed every audition, and how he gave up on any hopes at Broadway. How he went to open mic nights and would get a severe lack of applause out of the place for song selection. About how his dad wanted him to come home. About Paul.

Blaine listened attentively, hand leaned on his face, nodding every so often.

Kurt felt his eyelids drooping, and he shook his head quickly to try and dispel the tiredness.

"If you're sleepy, Kurt, we should go to bed," Blaine suggested. "We have work tomorrow. We can catch a late brunch..."

—

That's how Kurt Hummel ended up in Blaine Anderson's bed. Pants on, however.

When he woke up, he was so startled by his surroundings that he tripped over the edge of the blanket and was sent sprawling onto the carpet.

Blaine walked in, half a piece of toast in his hand, and raised an eyebrow. Kurt scrambled to his feet, humiliation burning. "You OK?" Blaine asked, and Kurt nodded fervently. "Cool. It's nearly eleven, by the way. Sorry I didn't wake you up. You looked peaceful."

Kurt felt his inner romantic swoon and his inner cynic gag.

"So I just had a piece of toast, but I'm still up for brunch. Are you?" Blaine asked, sitting on the bed and looking up at Kurt.

"That sounds spectacular," Kurt replied, feeling unusually at ease. Almost chipper.

"I know this great place, it's around the corner..."

They discussed music over paninis, Kurt giggling when Blaine regaled him with his high school set list.

"You've really got a thing for Top 40, then," Kurt concluded, an enormous grin splitting his face. Blaine shrugged a shoulder, taking another bite of the flattened sandwich.

"No, audiences have a thing for Top 40," he retorted through chewing. Kurt grimaced at the half-chewed food, so Blaine swallowed quickly. "But I have to say, I don't really ever know any other music than what's on the top of the charts. And classic rock."

"Show tunes?"

"Hardly any."

"You're a terrible excuse for a gay man."

"I never said I was gay."

Kurt looked up at Blaine suddenly, eyes wide. Had he really been -

But Blaine burst out laughing. "No, I am! I am! Oh, I'm sorry, that wasn't nice of me..." Kurt had to throw a hand to his chest to steady his breathing. "No, that wasn't very nice," Kurt murmured, and Blaine tutted.

"It was just a joke. I'm sorry. Here, I'll pay for your panini as an apology. No, stop it," Blaine argued as Kurt began to make dissent. "Seriously. Think of it as a work perk. After all the free liquor, of course."

Kurt laughed at this, and Blaine put up a hand for the check. He shot a grin at Kurt. "We have a lot more time today until the Warbler opens. Anything you want to do?"

"Do you open late on Saturdays?" Kurt asked.

"Around six. All the regulars know it, because we stay open a little later, too."

They exited the restaurant, both of them pulling their coats a bit tighter to them.

"I thought it was supposed to be warmer today," Kurt complained.

"Huddle!"

Kurt almost missed this blurt of Blaine's before he was suddenly snuggled up against. "Come on. Let's share body heat."

'O-ho,' Kurt couldn't help but think.

They walked arm in arm, pressed tightly together until they got back to the Warbler. They filed in quickly and went up to Blaine's place.

Blaine took Kurt's coat. "Let's watch a movie. You up for a rom-com?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Kurt chanted, settling on the lounge. "I'd never peg you for the rom-com type."

"Seriously?" Blaine asked, eyebrows high on his forehead with a goofy curl lying in the middle of his forehead. Kurt scrutinized him for a moment.

"No, you're right, you are a rom-com type."

"Yup. Move a bit, would you? It's When Harry Met Sally time."

The two of them cuddled close to one another, watching Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal dissect relationships. Blaine had let his head fall onto Kurt's shoulder, and Kurt was using every ounce of self-respect he had to not lean right over and -

No. Professionalism.

Well, keeping it friendly ...ism.

He didn't know how long he could keep it up though.

—

Kurt rolled the end of "Hometown Glory," which the young brunette, back again, had dramatically trilled to.

"Final call, people," Blaine announced, to the chagrin of the brunette girl out front. "That means you, Megan."

"Just a few more," she whined, and Blaine shook his head, a huge smile on his face. "Two more!"

"I'll play whatever you want, Megan," Kurt said with a wink, and she clapped her hand delightedly, like a child. In a bar.

The bar-goers slowly filed from the bar, leaving only Megan, who continually babbled about how wonderful Kurt was at the piano, and how he should honestly, truly play on a better stage, like on a cruise line. Blaine kept nodding and shut the door, Megan still talking through the glass door. Blaine pulled the shades over her face.

"You've got a fan," Blaine teased, nudging Kurt's hip with his own. Kurt rolled his eyes, pulling down the cover.

"She's got spunk, all right."

"Do you -"

Blaine cut himself short, and Kurt looked over to him, with an eyebrow raised. "Do I...?" Kurt asked tauntingly, with a smile on his face. Blaine shook his head.

"No, I was just being annoying -"

"I assure you, Blaine, in the list of things that I find you, annoying is not one of them."

Blaine looked at Kurt strangely for a moment, and Kurt burned with embarrassment, cursing his lack of a word filter. Blaine inhaled deeply before shooting out his question.

"Do you want to stay over again tonight? It's late. And I don't think you should be traveling the streets of New York at, like, three in the morning, it's dangerous, and-"

"Blaine, you're rambling. It's unlike you," Kurt said gently, and Blaine's mouth snapped shut. "Sure, though, if... if the offer's open."

"It'll always be open," Blaine blurted.

It seemed that neither of them had a word filter.

—

Kurt was slumped over Blaine's coffee table, his cheek squished as he leaned on his elbow.

"It's your turn, Blaine," he said quietly. Blaine ran his tongue over his lips to wet them, tired eyes glossing over his Scrabble letters. Kurt was hypnotized by the motion, but a large part of that was probably due to exhaustion.

"I can't make any words out of these," Blaine slurred. "I only have consonants."

"I win, then."

"As long as you don't shove it in my face later."

"As long as I can shove something else in your face later."

Kurt now knew that exhaustion equals a horrible, crippling lack of word filter. But Blaine just laughed, throwing his head back, exposing a lot of neck which Kurt couldn't help but stare at...

"Yeah, I think it's getting late."

That's how Kurt ended up in Blaine's bed for the second time in two days.

—

The rest of the week continued with Kurt ending up in Blaine's place every night. Even on Wednesday, which he had off, he found himself sitting at the bar, just chatting and watching Blaine work.

There was something about the deft way Blaine would twirl a clear bottle and pour a smooth blend of taste-bud-heaven. There was definitely something about the way Blaine would shoot Kurt a wide smile, as if to say, "Can you believe it?", as if he was in disbelief at the pleasure of his own life.

And each time, Kurt couldn't help but shoot him a sleepy, love-drunk smile.

On Thursday, Blaine sang with him on the stage, gyrating his hips and generally making a scene, but the bar-goers ate it up. Kurt would play progressively faster, and Blaine would sing at a faster tempo until his words were unintelligible, and the audience was so enveloped in intoxicated laughter it was nearing hysterics.

Kurt hadn't had a drop of liquor in him, and he knew he was laughing twice as hard as any person in the bar.

—

"It's been two weeks since I've met you," Blaine mentioned thoughtfully the following Thursday. Kurt, who had been polishing the keys of the piano, looked at him with his forehead wrinkled.

"We're counting?"

"We should celebrate anniversaries."

Kurt swallowed heavily, turning back to his pianos. "Anniversaries for meeting an employee?"

"Kurt, you've spent every day the past two weeks at my place."

"I went home four times, thank you."

"To get clothes. I hardly think you're just an employee to me."

This caused Kurt to abruptly stop his polishing, and he glanced towards the bartender, who was not grinning widely for once. He raised his brows to mirror Kurt's expression. He raised a hand and motioned towards himself. "Come here for a second."

Kurt couldn't have disobeyed Blaine if he wanted to. He closed the piano's key cover, and sauntered to Blaine, feeling extremely wary.

He stood on the opposite side of the counter, and Blaine seemed to be scrutinizing him. Blaine nodded once, then twice.

"I'm going to try something, if you don't mind," he declared, and Kurt laughed in disbelief.

"What do you mean, you're going to try -"

Every conscious, rational thought was blasted from his mind the moment Blaine leaned over the counter and pressed his lips to Kurt's. Granted, Blaine was a bit shorter than Kurt as it was, so he had to reach for Kurt's neck and pull him towards himself, so it wasn't the most comfortable arrangement...

But it was the most comfortable kiss Kurt had ever experienced. Every nerve in his body felt super-charged, and his hands flew to Blaine's face, paralleling Blaine's own.

Kurt had been prepared to deepen the kiss just that extra level when Blaine pulled away, his breath warm on Kurt's face.

"Hmm, OK," Blaine mumbled, his voice miniscule. "Yeah, that pretty much seals it."

"Seals wha-"

But Blaine's lips covered his once more, stealing his words. Kurt whined into Blaine's mouth as their tongues finally met, and the room felt heated and frenzied with every passing second.

"Yeah," Blaine said, breaking away once more, causing Kurt to groan, exasperated. "Yeah, maybe we shouldn't open today... Thursdays aren't too busy."

"Isn't that a relief?" Kurt deadpanned, before their lips collided once more.

Blaine broke away for an unheard-of third time, and Kurt was just about ready to strangle him. "Yeah, the counter is digging into my stomach, this is not ideal..."

"Then why are you still behind the counter?" Kurt asked, breathless, and Blaine laughed before circling the bar and grasping at Kurt's hands.

"Maybe we could still open."

"Blaine, stop talking."

"No, I don't want this to just be -that. I'm serious about everything, Kurt. So. Just quickly," Blaine said, his voice getting that rambling tone once more. Kurt nodded, squeezing Blaine's hands, reveling in just how soft they were. "I didn't hire you just because I'm -into you..."

"I didn't think you did."

"I'm drawn to you, Kurt," Blaine said quietly. "I just... can't help myself."

"You think I can?" Kurt asked him, laughter bubbling up.

"I want to open tonight still. I got ahead of myself. I like watching you play."

"I like seeing you at work, too."

"Well, I guess I just like seeing you."

Kurt's eyes fluttered closed and he felt himself melt in Blaine's embrace.

—

That's how Kurt Hummel ended up in Blaine Anderson's bed for the fifteenth time. But this time, it was anything but platonic. And it was anything but pants-on.

Kurt laughed under his breath, causing Blaine to roll over and look at him with a vaguely amused expression.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing's funny at all, actually," Kurt said seriously, and Blaine nodded confusedly. Kurt watched as Blaine sat up, stretching one arm above his head. Kurt tilted his head to admire the way his shoulder muscles moved with the action.

"Are you checking me out?" Blaine teased, catching Kurt from his reverie. Kurt raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Yes, I am."

"Brunch?"

"Only if I'm paying."

It was over the paninis that Kurt realized he really had taken a salary job, and he burst out laughing, and continued laughing until Blaine joined him, confused as ever.

When he was finished, he was breathing heavily, his face tinged pink and his breath coming out in smoky wisps in the cold air. He noticed Blaine looking at him, and he smiled unsurely.

"Sorry about that -"

"Do you want to move in with me? Like permanently?"

Kurt was startled for half a beat, his eyes widened. He noticed Blaine start to back-pedal, so he quickly assured him that yes, yes, that's not even a question, are you joking?

—

Every week, Kurt took Wednesdays off, but Blaine closed the bar on Thursdays, and they'd spend the day together, eating paninis at that place around the corner, watching bad movies, or just relishing each other's company.

It was in Blaine's arms that Kurt realized that his music really could come first, as long as Blaine was at the bar behind him, ready to join in every so often. As long as he was there at the end of each day just as he had at the beginning, Kurt could keep the music first. Though, sometimes, especially when they were shoulder-to-shoulder with their fingers splayed on the ivories, it was easy for Kurt to admit that maybe music could come in second, too.